


I Would Tell You A Thousand Stories

by PandaNova



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Comedy, Friendship, Gen, In no sensical order, Romance, This has everything in it, sorry for that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandaNova/pseuds/PandaNova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompts, one-shots, vignettes and natterings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Touch

**Author's Note:**

> These are a series of drabbles and prompts that were on my tumblr, but I figured the people here may enjoy reading them too! These are not as cleaned up as my usual work (don't look at my shame) so the typos are all mine.
> 
> For our first story Joan and Sherlock visit the grave of the patient she lost.

They stand at the small marker, the name quickly becoming obscured through lack of care and the cheapness of the stone. Joan sets down flowers, white chrysanthemums, kneeling beside them to stare into the false-granite. Other flowers are there too, roses and carnations, no doubt from the family who hold a more natural bond to the desiccated corpse below the turf. He stands stoic, and finds himself desperately searching for words to say. Something, anything, to break the morose tone that hung over them like fog.

Her hand brushes against the headstone, fingertips grating against harsh stone, before she slowly stands. He feels himself twitch with the action, his body on edge, and mind screaming that he must do something, anything in order to ease the awful tension on this very cinereal morning. 

Sherlock does not realize she is crying until her fingers wipe at her cheeks. Normally he can not tolerate weeping women. They sniffle, snivel, and wail with the loss of their loves, children, siblings. He has seen too many, watched too much grief, and found he has no taste for it. Yet Watson does it with a quiet grace, with all the dignity that is within her that he has come to respect and admire within her. Only her glove covered fingers, now slightly damp with her tears, give away her inner mourning. She wears her regret like a badge on her chest to constantly remind her of her penance. 

He remember this, the wall he put up around himself to block out the rest of the world. Keeping himself in a perpetual cycle of drugs and loneliness, all to make up for Irene’s demise. Psychological self-flagellation. She steps back from the grave and looks at him. In her eyes he sees regret, bitterness, spite, disappointment, and pain. She opens her mouth to speak, and he knows that she will be asking his forgiveness, apologizing for bringing him out here. He will not take it, this apology, this deflection rather than admission of need, of pain, this shoulders of blame only she believes in.

He takes a quick step toward her and wraps his arms around that diminutive frame . He does not pull her to him, does not clutch her, but simply lets the weight of his arms encircling her shoulders comfort her. She freezes, before mimicking the gesture, one arm resting against his shoulder while keeping the other limp. She keeps the distance, there is enough space they do not touch more than intended, and after a few moments they break apart again.

There is a question in her eyes, and usually he would make leave her to flounder, but this time Sherlock believes she deserves an immediate explanation. “Touch is entirely self-serving, Watson.” He is looking past her now, and they mirror each other. Eyes on the grave, as a quiet breeze goes through the morning air.

“Touch is a selfish act, desperate and deficient. We touch, not for the sake of the person suffering, but for our own lack of ability to right the great injustices inflicted on those we care about.” He watches her in his periphery as the wind sets strands of her hair dancing in the breeze. “If it were in my power Watson, I would mend this wound.” His voice shakes with emotion, and she reaches out and touches his hand. They wear gloves but the pressure is enough, and he looks to her. 

“Thank you, Sherlock.” She is smiling, even through the pain so evident in her eyes, as he wraps his hand around her own. They walk out of the graveyard together, in the silence pain deserves, hoping to bury their own and leave it behind.


	2. Infantile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan and Sherlock realize that Sherlock is both bad and good with kids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the anonymous individual who asked for a Joanlock + baby fic.

Joan held the five month old in her arms, the little girl desperately trying to squirm from her grip. She laughed as once again the babe desperately attempted to reach out for Sherlock’s scarf and he would side step out of the poor things reach.

“You seem to have retained some maternal instincts, Watson.” He curled is nose in disgust at the small infant as those small chubby fingers once more grabbed for his scarf and he quickly through the free flying end over his shoulder so it would be well and truly out of her reached. “But I do not see why you have to baby sit in my presence.”

Joan ran her hand over the little girl’s head to ease a few strands of her black hair that were sticking away from her floral headband. It appeared she had also impressed some of her fashion onto the girl because she was dressed in her own tinier version of a skirt and stockings. “I told you I was going to watch Tiffany for the weekend, and it just so happens we are investigating a daycare center. I thought you would think it a stroke of luck.” 

“Your brother works in an international firm, couldn’t he afford a nanny like a civilized person.” His nose scrunched up as the baby fussed in her arms. 

“First, I asked to watch Tiffany. I want to spend time with my niece.” Joan smiled down at her, the smile people only reserve for babies as she busied herself playing with Joan’s necklace. “And second, the only reason you’re even upset is because it means I’m not paying attention to you.”

Sherlock gave an irritated noise, “Well, just keep the little plague-rat away from me.”

“She is not a plague-rat.”

“It is a known fact that children have weaker immune systems, and therefore contract common illnesses more often than their adult counterparts. However, once it goes through the infant’s system it becomes stronger and infects those around it with a stronger strain.”

“You are so full of it, Sherlock.” Joan was smirking now as they stepped into the coffee shop. Tiffany, oblivious to the conversation, once more reached out for Sherlock’s scarf and this time when he moved away she started to cry. “Aw, Tiffany. Is he being mean to you?” She did not baby talk, but the sickening sweet tone in her voice sent Sherlock thumping away to get their coffee and rolling his eyes as she found a place to sit.

During their coffee and tea session they were accosted, on no less seven occasions, by people coming to tell Joan how beautiful her baby was, and how cute a couple they were. Disgusting, as if he would ever be associated with child bearing. Joan corrected, each time with an easy smile. Any idiot with a bit of deductive sense could tell Tiffany was not Joan’s. They only shared barely familial traits, and none of the genetic markers that would show on a child of hers.

They were almost finished when Joan asked Sherlock to actually hold the little parasite. “And she will be here when I get back, as will you, or I will throw out your current experiment.” Joan’s formidable stare kept him rooted to the spot. He held Tiffany like she was a loaded gun, his eyes staring into her own wide brown ones. He noted she had a semi-apparent epicanthic fold, and that her skin stone was several shades darker than Joan’s. 

“Look, I don’t like you and you aren’t going to like me.” He adjusted the child as she started to fuss and set her against the table, “So let’s just get through the next two days with as little incident as possible, ok?” The baby made a series of strange noises at him in response, and he deemed that was ascent. Then she started reaching out again, hands frantic and he responded by moving her away which caused her to only become all the more set upon her target.

Then she started to cry, and Sherlock remembered why he loathed babies. Every eye in the restaurant was staring at him, and he felt his body go rigid. He could, of course, wait for Joan to return. Yet with each high pitched wail she gave the more attention he gained, and finally he acquiesced. 

“Fine. Take it.” He pulled off his scarf and handed it over to her grubby little hands, the baby quickly shoving it in her mouth and quieting. He used an end of it to wipe her eyes and nose, and knew he would never be able to wear that scarf again. At least it wasn’t his red one.

When Joan returned he had Tiffany asleep against his shoulder, staring out the window as she was lightly wrapped in the scarf. She couldn’t help the smug look on her face, gazing down at him as he lightly rocked the child with an idle motion. “Seems you’ve retained some paternal instincts.”

“Watson!” He looked like a man reprieved from a death sentence. He quickly handed the baby over, careful not to wake her, still wrapped up in the scarf. “I expect you to pay for that scarf to be dry cleaned, along with my coat. And if you leave me alone with her again I do not give any promises as to her safety.”

Joan simply laughed and cradled Tiffany against her own shoulder as Sherlock grabbed both their beverages. “Come on, I don’t know how much longer I can take care of two children.”


	3. Upside Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan comes home to find Sherlock hand cuffed to a ladder and unable to get free, just another Monday at the Brownstone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my boyfriend, who gave me the idea.

Joan unlocked the door to the Brownstone with the same amount of tension she always felt if she was gone for more than an hour. This had been a record, she was gone for four hours, so she expected something to be on fire, in pieces, or growing when she returned. What she didn’t expect was the distressed Holmes who called out to her the moment she opened the door.

“Watson, oh thank heavens.” It was coming from the living room, and she quickly clicked the dead bolt before practically running into the living room. And there was Sherlock, shirtless and hanging upside down from a ladder. His ankles held by two different set of cuffs, and his wrists with one set but held to the rung below his head. “I lost feeling in my hands precisely thirty one minutes ago, and found I could not keep proper motor control. Then I dropped my tools and here we sit.” He was impatient, straining at the cuffs with a look on his faced that clearly stated annoyed.

She would have laughed if it wasn’t for the simple fact that he had been stuck, upside down, for at least thirty minutes. “Do I even want to know?”

“It didn’t involve hookers if that is your concern. It just occurred to me that I had always practiced in the most obvious scenarios. Handcuffed to a chair, back of a police car, radiator, that sort of thing.” He shifted uncomfortably, curling himself upward so his head was elevated and holding himself there for a several moments before releasing. Obviously, that was how he kept himself from falling unconscious. “So I had decided it would be most illuminating if I considered more bizarre scenarios.”

Joan leaned down and retrieved the small picking tools as she and Sherlock were finally at eye level. “And what scenario involves you tied upside down to a ladder?”

“You would be surprised what a well versed criminal will think up.”

“Right.” She shook her head before turning around and going to the table. “Alright, I’ll get you down just tell me where the key is.”

“Key?”

“Yeah, the key.”

“I use these for practice Watson! What would the point be in having a key?”

“What?!” She turned then, her eyes wide as she stared at him. “You own twenty six pairs of hand cuffs and don’t have a key for any of them!” She tried to keep her voice level but found herself shouting at him for his idiocy by the end of it.

“There is no point in having a key if the point is to pick the lock Watson! Now I am not going to argue this with you, come over here and help me.”

“I can’t pick locks Sherlock.” She was still holding the two small picking tools in her hands as he glared at her.

“Well, now will be a great time to learn.”

It took another forty five minutes for her to get him undone, and he became more and more irritable with each failed attempt. Finally it clicked and she released him. He stretched and curled his fingers before snatching the tools out of her hands and undoing the ones holding his legs in quick succession. “A most pitiful attempt, Watson.” 

“I’m not the one who locked myself upside down on a ladder.”

“Yes, it appears I shall have to test this scenario more. I did learn something valuable however. I now know how to hang upside down for close to two hours without losing consciousness.” He seemed smug, as if all of this was supposed to happen as he rubbed his wrists and she shook her head. She was about to leave when he spoke again, “As for you, come with me. We’re going to have you able to pick most of these by the end of the day. You will be amazed in our line of work, the sheer amount you will find yourself in handcuffs.”

She gave an exasperated sigh and followed him to the infamous wall of locks. So much for going for a jog this afternoon. “Now we’ll start you off on something easy -” this was going to be a long day.


	4. Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is sick again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Disgruntledsquids who asked for a fic of Sherlock being sick and sneaking into Joan's bed.

Sherlock was in the sixth circle of hell. The Ninth was losing some one you loved, the eighth was the withdrawals from heroine, and the seventh was children. So being ill with a fever had to be the sixth. He sneezed for the thirty fourth time in the last four hours, his nose red and inflamed with the effort. His head was throbbing, his temperature was elevated and he could concentrate on nothing. He had considered informing Watson of his state, but she would have been oh so smug about it and brought him her magical herbal remedy tea. Then she would have sat there, smug as he tried to refuse to drink it. Maybe he was only in the fifth, and the sixth was Watson being smug.

He rolled over on the couch, he had started a fire, but it did nothing to keep him warm. He rolled over for the fifty third time in the past four hours, and finally gave up. He wrapped his comforter around him and took to the stairs. He was sniffling by the time he got to Watson’s room and opened the door. She was definitely asleep, arm above her head and flopped in a most ungraceful way across her sheets. 

“Watson.” Luckily she was a light sleeper and started awake immediately, and then looked to her clock. 

“Sherlock, it’s four in the morning. What the hell do you want?” Annoyed, he had predicted for that. He hadn’t predicted the thirty fifth sneeze, and the cough and sniffling fit that followed. Joan turned on the light on the bed side table and looked at him. “You’re sick again.”

“It would appear that it is very drafty in the living room.” He said in an off-hand manner.

“I am not getting up and making you tea right now.”

“Please.”

“No. It’s four in the morning.”

“Please, Watson.”

She gave an exasperated cry and threw back her covers and got up. “You owe me.” Then left. In her absence he realized her bed looked much more comfy than the couch, or his own. She must have bought one of the pillow top coverings. He wrapped himself tighter in the duvet and quickly made himself comfortable on the side of the bed closer to the door. Oh yes, much better. He was almost asleep when her feet stomped back up the stairs.

“Ah, thank you Watson.” He said as she walked through the door and stopped. He reached out a hand, but she didn’t come any closer.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“Waiting for my tea, obviously.”

“What are you doing in my bed?”

“Ah this! It occurs that your room is much warmer than the living room and much nicer to sleep on than the couch -”

“No.”

“Also, having another body to regulate the heat of ones own drastically helps moderate fever -”

“No.”  
“And would overall lead to a better recovery on my part.” 

“Sherlock.” Her voice was cold, and he stood rigid even as she leveled the infamous Watson stare at him. His toes may have curled involuntarily under this stare, but he did not move. “Out of my bed.”

“Please?” He countered her cold stare with his own pleading gaze. “I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

She sighed and stepped over to hand him his tea. “You so much as touch me and I will kick you onto the floor. Clear?”

He grinned as he took a very large helping of tea and Joan circled around to the further side of the bed. She didn’t change, though her night dressing was always rather modest anyway, and simply put herself back into bed. “You are so lucky I’m tired.”

“I shall remember this for the next time I need you to acquiesce to something difficult.” 

“Don’t push it.” He took another sip of the tea, set the mug on the bedside table and turned off the light. In the end he had not kept his end of the bargain. A dreadful chill over took him and he ended up latching onto Joan at around six in the morning. She didn’t kick him out either, just sighed and tolerated the arm thrown over her midsection and the leg thrown over both of hers. He had also stolen most of the blanket but left just enough for her to cover herself, and monopolized both of the pillows. Still, when he grumbled happily against her back and pulled her a little tighter she couldn’t help smiling. 

“Get better Sherlock.” He grumbled and mumbled something about bees and dinosaurs in response. Joan closed her eyes and finally got some sleep.


	5. Almost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's almost past Irene. Almost. (M rated)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the saddest fic I've ever written, but I just really wanted to review the damage Sherlock has taken on, and his own obsessive nature.

“What do they mean?” Her voice is soft as blue eyes concentrate on the tattoos. Her finger tips are soft and clean from paint as they trace up and down his arm. They following the lines of scales and spider webs, infinitely fascinated with the art of them. He smiles, her beautiful blonde hair radiant around her cheeks as she looks at him with the easy sensuality that is hers alone. Irene, beautiful and perfect Irene.

“Sherlock?” Another voice invades, and he has to blink several times before his mind is clear. The Brownstone is there, not Irene’s London apartment. Some one else is tracing the marks along his arm, and he forces himself to be here and now. Dark eyes, dark hair, beautiful skin. Her fingers follow similar paths, but her eyes are on him. She gazes into him, not with the sensual perfection of Irene, but with the knowledge only she carries. With the mind he cherishes almost as much as the woman who embodies it. Almost.

“That would ruin the mystery, wouldn’t it?” She laughs, and he hides the memory and tries to concentrate on her. “You’re a consulting detective, remember? Deduce!” This brings another soft peal of laughter, and then she is climbing on top of him, her skin glowing in the lamp light.

“Well, then I’d have to see all of them wouldn’t I?” There is a wicked look on her face, not flirtatious but knowing. She leans over and presses her lips to the first mark she can see, and he finds himself fascinated with the way her body looks outside of all those layers she usually wears. Golden skin, freckles, dark eyes and the long hair that glows almost blue when light reflects off of it. Yet, atop her outline he can see the imprint of some one else, can feel the lips of some one else as she captures his lips with her own. Two sensations mixing, one truth and one memory. He wonders if she knows that she is constantly being compared and contrasted. If she is aware that she is constantly fighting against the shadow of a woman he is not sure ever truly was Irene Adler.

For now, he tries not to think of her. Just wraps his arms around the woman atop him, as she wraps herself around him. For now, she is here. For now, she simply is. That is almost enough. Almost.


	6. Haircare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Started by a prompt an anonymous person gave me on tumblr asking for a fic of Joan explaining her various haircare products to Sherlock. Enjoy!

“I cannot comprehend the need females have for collecting hair care products.” Sherlock said, waiting impatiently outside the door as Joan was finishing drying her hair.

“Collecting?” Joan asked as she turned off the hair dryer and opened the door.

“Yes, for I can find no other reason to own three canisters of hair spray.” Sherlock was looking irritable, and they were not on a case so it wasn’t impatient. He had been going through moods of depression and irritation in greater and greater severity as the days went by without a case. Joan sighed as she turned back to the collection of bottles, tubes, canisters, and tubs she used for her hair. 

“You don’t understand because you don’t bother with how you look.” Joan responded after a moment, checking over the cans, “also, not all of these are hair spray. Only two are.” Sherlock frowned, looking at them from the doorway as she lifted up one of them to show to him, “This is a foam, it works as a mousse.” 

“Mousse is for eating,” He grumbled, and she laughed before returning to her things, and Sherlock gazed back at the arrangement of tubs, tubes, canisters and bottles. “So what do they do?” He asked sheepishly, his eyes flitting from one product to the next with a strange sort of wonder. Joan smiled and stepped back so he could enter the bathroom with her.

“This,” she began, grabbing a small tube to show to him, “Is a glossing agent, it’s what makes my hair look shiny.” 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion, “I thought hair of Asian genetic stock was naturally reflective.”

“Not as much as you’d think,” Joan said, before setting the tube down and picking up another. “This is gel, extra strength. It’s like hairspray in a more solid form, and feels a bit like glue. It’s used in the same way, to keep my hair from moving at all. I don’t use it much.” 

She handed it to Sherlock and admired as he felt the weight of it in his hand, then turned it over. Lastly he opened it, and got a small amount on his fingers and was fascinated by the way it stuck on his fingers. Then he smelled it and recoiled back, “You put this on your hair?” He asked, somewhere between shock and horror.

Joan laughed before responding, “Only for fancy occasions, that stuff is murder on your hair if you use it too much.” She reclaimed the tube from his hands and grabbed the mousse. He was peering very close now, staring at the can in her hands before she hit the nozzle and a white foam filled her palm. 

“May I?” He asked, almost in a hush and Joan smirked before offering her hand to him. He took a bit of the foam on the end of a finger, turning it this way and that as she put the remaining amount into her hair. Combing it backward from the roots with her fingers, and he watched this with equal fascination. “And this does?” He asked, staring at her hair with confusion.”

“It makes my hair look thicker, and makes it easier to curl. It also makes the roots stick up slightly so it sits up and away from my forehead. She quickly demonstrated as she pushed the hair upward so the front of ther hair moved completely away from her face.

“This may seem foolish, Watson. But I was under the impression your hair behaved this way naturally, or by benefit of your hair cut.” Sherlock said after a moment as she reached over to grab a large round brush to assist the slight waves of her hair to become more pronounced.

“Women like for men to think that, but no. If my hair naturally did all this, I wouldn’t have to spend two hours in here after it dries.” She gave him a smirk at his wonder and held up the final two canisters. “And you should know what these are-”

“Hairspray.” He filled in for her instantly, with a bit of pride. “Though they are both of the same brand, so you cannot be using them for comparison.”

“No, one of them is to make sure my hair stays exactly where it is -”

“I thought that was what the glue was for,” Sherlock interrupted, eyebrows furrowing in confusion again.

“It’s not the same. The glue is if I want to make absolutely sure that even a hurricane won’t move my hair. The hairspray is to make sure that it stays in place through the day. While this,” she held up the other canister, “is just to make sure that hair stays out of my face when the mousse wears off.” Then she raised it, and, pointing herself away from Sherlock, sprayed a few sprays around the edges where the hair would meet her forehead before capping the canister and setting it aside. “So, as you can see, it’s not a collection.”

Sherlock nodded with a slight bit of wonder as he looked over the various products, “So they are merely for different situations. I never considered there was such variety in hair products.”

“Of course not.” Joan said with a smirk as she looked back towards the mirror and began moving all the products for her hair into a bag and pulling out a different bag for her makeup and placing them all around the sink in front of the mirror. 

“And all this is no collection either? Each of these has an individual purpose?”

Joan sighed and looked down at the variety of concealers, eyeliner, lipstick, blush, and eyeshadow before shaking her head and placing them back in the bag. Sherlock seemed distressed but she gave him a smile before gesturing for him to move.

“Come on, if I’m going to explain the intricacies of make up to you we’re going to do it somewhere I can sit down.” And with that she moved past him and he followed toward her bedroom, still playing with the sticky edge of the gel on his fingers.


	7. No Girls Allowed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another anonymous prompt who dared to doubt my ability to put our daring duo in any possible situation.

“Watson, get up here.” He is whispering tersely, through his teeth, it’s his way of telling her she is annoyed. She simply stands there, staring up at him with a look that tells him his tone is not getting through.

“It says no girls allowed.” Joan replies, her tone speaking volumes towards her sarcasm. He gives her a look that shows his lack of caring, and gets rolled eyes in response.

“Watson, please.” He gives an earnest and desperate tone, this makes her cave. It always makes her cave. Still, she makes sure her exasperation with him is known before finally acquiescing and climbing up the ladder.

Holmes returns to his vigil out the off-center window when he hears Watson pull herself up on the landing. She is grumbling to herself, he pretends not to hear. Apparently she snagged the edge of her skirt on the way up, and it ripped. He shall have to have it replaced, he jots this down in his mind along with the toothpaste he has to replace. He’d best remember that today or she’ll be cross.

“Will you explain to me why we’re in a tree house?”

“Observational advantage.” Holmes supplies her with an answer barely after she finishes the question, he was expecting it. He sits back, handing her the binoculars. “That is the house of Mr. Bernard Tully.”

“The guy from the surveillance video.” Joan says, before he has to tell her. It’s always a feeling of pride when she does so, it means she is paying attention. So few people pay attention.

“And this is the perfect place to observe him, to see if he does anything we should be concerned about.”

“Like where he might be keeping Mrs. Tully?”

Holmes only nods in response, staring into binoculars over the fence and into the double glass of his living room via the sliding glass door to his very american backyard. He is pacing, speaking on the phone, but it is hard to follow his lip movements in profile.

“Is it ok for us to be up here?” Joan is moving around in the cramped space, forced to move on hands and knees. He hears her fiddling with something, but keeps his curiosity in check. Observing is more important now, he can see what is in the treehouse later. Tully has paced the width of his living room exactly five times, it would assume whomever he is talking to it is not going well. “Holmes.” She is more forceful in tone now, and he sighs.

“I gave the children adequate compensation for the use of their treehouse.”

“And the parents?”

“Won’t be home for several hours, and we shall be gone by then.”

“Sherlock!” Her tone shows her disappointment, and anger.

He sighs, and puts down the binoculars. “The eldest is sixteen, that is the age of maturity here. I asked his permission, he acquiesced.”

“He does not own this property.”

“Neither do his parents, the bank does. You do not expect me to ask the bank’s permission do you?”

“Of course not-”

“Then the argument is invalid. Now if you don’t mind I wish to continue my surveillance until I gain adequate research on Mr. Tully.” He is losing his patience, and she narrows her eyes at him. He knows that look, it means she doesn’t care that he is losing patience or time until he does things right. “I will leave my card, so the parents may contact me.”

“Better.” Joan is at the window now, looking at the same window he was. Mr. Tully has left the living room, but the house is covered in windows and it only takes a moment for them both to spot him again. He had moved up the stairs to his bedroom and was putting together a rather interesting over night bag.

“Naughty Mr. Tully,” Sherlock says, a grin on his face as he watches him place a side arm, two pairs of hand cuffs, and duct tape into the bag. “I do wonder what he has planned for his evening.” He threw in a ski-mask and a few others oddities, but Sherlock was already putting the binoculars away and heading for the steps. “Come Watson, I suspect tree houses shall be the least of the interesting locales we end up in this evening.”

Watson sighs, but follows immediately this time.


	8. Consideration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For tumblr user lovelamblegs who wanted a fic that addressed the fact that Joan and Sherlock share a bathroom.

“Sherlock get out of there!” Joan thumps on the door four times, her hair in disarray from her morning jog and face shimmering with a fine layer of sweat.

“I refuse.” Sherlock says from the other side of the door. She can’t see him, but she informed him that she was going to jump into the shower the moment she got back from her jog, and he also knew it took her precisely an hour to jog in the morning. So, everything pointed to him doing this on purpose. She did wait, a whole thirty minutes, but still he had fortressed himself into the bathroom. “Make me an offer, and perhaps I’ll consider it.”

She can tell by the fact that he isn’t raising his voice that he is near the door. She can also tell there is no water running.“I swear to god Sherlock I will break down that door.”

“All you’ll do is hurt your shoulder.” Sherlock is sounding smug, she can imagine his self satisfied smirk through the door.

“I know how to break down a door.”

“Now.” He says if softer than before, but loud enough to make sure she hears. She grumbles, of course he would bring up her first failed attempt to break down a door before she learned that you need to kick as close to the doorknob as possible. She also learned that this method really only works on interior doors, and that with outer doors the only solution is lock picks or a crowbar.

“Yes now. And I know I can take this door down. So get out of there.”

“No.” He has gone from smug, to petulant. And she grumbles and leans against the door in frustration.

“Ok, what do you want?” She feels the door shift and figures Sherlock is mirroring her own movement, leaning against the door. Which would make any attempt to kick the door down much more difficult.

“I am allowing you to feel the agony that is waiting for you to get ready in the morning.” His voice is defiant, and she feels the door bump against her. Joan is sure he did it on purpose.

“What are you talking about, Sherlock?”

“You take two, may I repeat, two whole hours in the morning to get ready.” She can imagine his gesticulations for emphasis as he talks, she’s gotten so used to his tics and over-exaggerated emphasis that she no longer needs him present to know what he is doing. “Can you imagine what it must be like for everyone else that you give yourself this luxury? There is only one lavatory in the brownstone Watson, you must be considerate.”

“So for the sake of being considerate you are going to lock yourself in the bathroom for two hours?” Joan presses, a secretive smile taking to her lips.

“Yes.” There is a bit of worry in the response, and she knows it’s because of the sound of victory in her voice.

“And this is to prove a point, not because I decided going on my date yesterday was more important than staying home with you and memorizing blood splatter patterns?” Joan is smirking as he goes still on the other side of the door. She pushes herself off the floor, brushing a bit of dust off her jogging pants.

“What a completely self-centered notion Watson. I am merely trying to force you to realize how inconsiderate you have been.”

“About the bathroom.”

“Yes.”

“And not about going out instead of being a good student and staying home?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, ok then. I mean, obviously, you’ve made up your mind and I can’t change it. I’ll just go downstairs and play with Clyde and you can come get me in another -” She glances down at her watch, grinning in satisfaction at the numbers displayed to her, “hour and fifteen minutes.”

She didn’t even make it to the bottom of the stairs before the door thrust open and Sherlock came charging down the steps after her. She stopped at the bottom landing, cocking her hip and folding her arms under her chest, an eyebrow quirked in curiosity.

“On second thought, Watson. Perhaps this is not an adequate way to show how one shows consideration.” He is oscillating on the last stair, unsure of himself as he is caught between two uncomfortable realities. There is only one thing Sherlock hates more than being wrong, boredom.

“Really?” She tries to keep the sarcasm in check, but can’t help the smirk that follows as Sherlock levels a forced amount of neutrality in his gaze.

“Quite. I instead propose that you pop upstairs and get ready, then we shall be going over cold cases for the rest of today.” He steps to the side, indicating up the stairs to demonstrate his point. She makes it three stairs upwards before he speaks again, “And I would be careful stepping into the shower.”

Joan stops, and turns to look at him. He is grinning, wide and bright as Joan takes the stairs in a rush jumping the landings and taking them two at a time. She opens the door and pulls back the curtain as Sherlock heads downwards and puts on a kettle. He can hear the door slam closed and her feet on the stairs.

“Sherlock! You are dead!” Joan is shouting from the second landing as he sits at the table, a confident and satisfied smile on his face. If she can’t be considerate, at least he can get even. Sherlock had always wanted to know the expansion property of mousse when mixed with household chemicals, and now he did.


	9. Sweat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW! Smut below!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got an anonymous prompt for Watson/Gregson, which I had never attempted before. So here it is, and I hope it's not too bad. (Also smut is not my strong point, but enjoy it anyway)

They meld into one another, his smell of cologne and sweat intermixing with her perfume and freshly laundered clothes. His fingers grip her tight as she is a arching against him. She makes very little sound, her multitude of pleasures displayed subtly on her face that you have to see them enough to memorize. He knows he has. Her fingers play across his cheek as a shaking breath is released from her throat and he has to lean to feel the pulse at her throat. She arches against and he grips tighter, forcing her still. 

“Joan,” he whispers it against her skin, and she shudders beneath him as he begins to push the pace. Her fingers disappear into his hair, the dignified symbol of his wisdom she called it. At the time it had only made him all the more aware of their differences. Now, he thinks they are perfectly suited. Her wisdom is strong, her common sense more so, and her passion endless.

She finally breaks the holy silence, a begging whimper and he gives in to it. She is rocking against him, forcing the movements in a moment of selfish need, and he indulges her, he always does. She is gasping, her body tensing and he feels the inward clench of her body and feels the satisfaction that comes with it. She is practically shivering when they finish, their bodies each coated with a fine sheen of sweat. They collapse against the sheets, her body instantly finding his to press against as her head finds his shoulder. They don't say anything, too often there is an immediate discussion of the act, but now only a hollowed silence that stretches into the room as they stare at the ceiling. Joan is breathing softly, fingers tracing along collarbones. He imagines her whispering muscle groups to herself as she does so, he wonders how often her failed career haunts her, he says nothing. Joan leans up to press a kiss against his jaw, and he feels the brush of her long hair as she does so.

“I need to get going,” It' the same thing she always says at the end, both of them knowing she can't leave Sherlock for long. He nods as she pulls herself from the bed, and he watches her nubile form as she disappears toward the bathroom to shower. They both know if there is any evidence of their act Sherlock will find it, and they are both careful.

“How about dinner tomorrow Joan? We could go to that italian place on 15th?” He says it loud enough that she can hear, not willing to get up from the sheets that still smell like them. Knowing when he does he'll change them as he always does. Must always be careful.

“Sorry, I can't. Sherlock has group.” Joan says, an she gives no offer of another time. He drops it, knowing that with a case on the horizon too much is unknown. He waits to hear the shower turn on, but it doesn't. Instead she is standing in the hall, her body silhouetted by the light from the bathroom. IT casts her into shadows and light in equal intensity. “How about we take a weekend off when all this is over?”

“Won't Sherlock notice?”

Joan smirks, the way she does when she knows something he doesn't. He doesn't ask, never wanting to break the surprise. “I don't think so.” With that she retreats back into the bathroom and he hears the shower running, and he let's himself rest. A weekend away sounds perfect.


	10. Poker Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The usual suspects come together for poker at the Brownstone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For technicolorrelays on tumblr, thanks for the prompt!

“You're twenty down, Captain.” Sherlock says with a self satisfied grin. They are sitting at the long table that would be a dining room table if they ever used it as such. A mismatch set of chairs have been pulled around it, since the nice two matching set is not enough for a decent hand of poker. Joan has taken the most comfortable chair for herself, the one she usually sits at in the kitchen. He too is in his usual kitchen chair, though he had attempted to steal Joan's as they are both aware hers is far more comfortable.

The guests of the night are Detective Bell, sitting in the white painted dining room chair that neither Joan or Holmes will sit in and his uncomfortable shifts show it's no better for him, Captain Gregson in the nicer of the chairs, and Alfredo who brought his own chair having known better. He was eased back into an foldable lawn chair, eyes on his cards and an unreadable expression on his face.

“You're down fifty, Sherlock. If you don't get your head in the game, all ya'll gonna be owin me money.” Alfredo says without shifting, or his expression changing. He is sitting behind an impressive set of chips that he has accrued over the evening and each time he wins Sherlock glowers a bit more. 

“Well, your winning streaks gotta end sometime.” Bell says with a smirk, throwing down his discard and waiting for Joan to give him replacement cards. Joan was made dealer by unanimous vote since no one trusted anyone else with the cards, and so far she'd been paying for it. She hadn't won a single hand, and was sitting behind the most meager pile of chips at the table. Poker was not her game, despite her blooming skills as a detective there was no cure for a bad set of cards. The best thing she had set down all night was a set of twos, which Alfredo beat with a flush. 

“I believe that streak is going to end now.” Replied Gregson, and he was giving an obvious victors tell with that smug grin on his face as he leaned back in the chair. “I raise you twenty.”

“I see your twenty and raise twenty.” Sherlock replied, keeping his stoic neutrality but his almost pouting tone showed he didn't think he had much of a hand. Joan looked to Bell, who shrugged.

“I fold,” Bell responded, setting the unturned cards down on the table. It was the first time that night he had decided not to go with his hand, and he gave Joan a small smile ignoring the shocked looks of the others at the table.

“It seems Detective Bell can be taught something.” Sherlock said, with his mocking tone of authority in full tilt, “I had always thought any man who played two pair was hopeless.”

“Yeah, you keep sayin' that Sherlock when Llamosa here walks out with all our money.” Bell said with a smirk.

“Speaking of me and your money,” Alfredo said with a grin, “I'm raising everything. I'm tired of taking all your money.” He pushed in the large pile chips and Sherlock almost twitched with aggitation.

“None of us can make that bet Alfredo.” The captain said, attempting to defuse to immediate situation. 

“I know, if you're gonna stick just bet whatever you have left. I'd like to get home before sunrise.” Alfredo leaned back, fingers folded and cards sitting on the table waiting. Sherlock and Gregson met eyes, both seeming to come to the same conclusion as they pushed in the remains of their piles.

“This only leaves you, Watson.” Sherlock said, his voice taking on a somewhat softer tone. Joan knew it, pity. It was true, she had folded more than not, and had shown pitiful hands when she hadn't. 

Joan looked down at her hand, shifting slightly in her chair. A nervous tell, and she knew it as she adjusted the cards slightly before nodding. “I'm in too, at least then this stupid game will be done.” She pushed in her very small pile of chips and Alfredo tossed her a smile.

“That's the spirit, girl.” Alfredo's voice was encouraging, but also satisfied. “Alright everybody, let's see them hands. Sherlock, if you'd do the honors.”

“If I may save you the trouble.” Joan said suddenly just as Sherlock was about to expose his hand. The nervous twitching Watson had disappeared, leaving behind a very smug grin as she looked around the table. “Sherlock has two pair, aces, and at least one high card. Gregson has four of a kind, and the coveted ace Sherlock is missing.” The two man sat rigid, shocked as they stared down at their hands, staring down at their hands.

“You cheated!” Sherlock shouted, coming to his senses first. “Watson, I am aghast, an upstanding ex-surgeon as yourself going so low as to deal dirty. The position of dealer is sacrosanct.”

“No cheating, just deduction.” Joan replied, leaning back before gesturing to the discard pile. “You discarded two, keeping the third but the way you held it was separate, in fact when you first fixed your hand you placed it to the far side meaning it could not match the two cards on your left you refused to shift. When I gave you your two replacement, these went on the other side of the fifth card. Thus, two pair, and a high card for any argument.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out and he was left floundering as Joan turned toward Gregson. “Your four pair was obvious, you had two to start and you discarded. When I dealt to you, you immediately smirked. It's one of your tells, but it was not the signal you had a flush.”

“And the ace?”

“You always trace ace edges, is it for luck Tobias?” 

He frowned then, setting down his cards that showed her to be correct. Joan gave a smile of victory as Alfredo laughed. “Damn girl, you got them good.” He said through another bark of laughter as Sherlock finally came to his senses and began to sulk in his seat. 

“Remind me never to play cards against you again,” Bell said, a similar look of amusement on his face.

“Well, if you got them then you know I'm walking out with all these chips tonight.” Alfredo said, his easy demeanor showing as he leaned back causing his chair to creak. 

“Not true.” Watson said, her knowing smirk becoming a full victorious smile. “While your straight is good, nothing can beat my royal flush.” With a slight flourish Joan set out her hand, a wide grin on her face as everyone at the table balked at the cards. But there it was, and Alfredo started laughing.

“How many hands did you have that could have won?” Sherlock said, eyes suddenly suspicious as he shifted to stare at her directly.

“Quite a few.”

“So you kept folding, or only playing bad hands?” Bell asked, his face showing confusion as he stared down at her pile of winnings.

“It gave me time to observe, and I waited until the pot was of considerable size and I knew I could win. The fact that it was this one, was just luck.” Joan said, her smug exterior disappearing as she pulled the pile of chips to her side of the table. “Not to mention the more I lost, the worse the rest of you felt.”

“Well damn,” Alfredo said, standing and shaking his head. “Well that's me wiped clean. We good for tonight?”

“Aw, you're walking away already?” Joan said, smug as she set up her pile. “I'm sure we can find something more you boys can bet.”

“With respect, Ms. Watson, I don't want to owe you next week's paycheck as well.” Tobias replied, doffing an invisible cap to her.

Over the next half hour they cleaned up, before each of their guests said goodbye, leaving only Sherlock and Watson. The door closed, and Watson turned to see Sherlock showing her. He hadn't dropped the look of irritation since the game ended, and Joan cringed involuntarily. She was awaiting a lecture, but instead saw his body ease and a smile take to his face.

“Excellent job, Watson. You overcame my expectations marvelously.” He gestured toward the kitchen, where he had put the kettle on while she was showing them out. He poured two cups, offering hers before sitting at the table.

“Sherlock, you couldn't possibly have known I was going to win that hand. Even you're not that good.” Joan said, frowning with the sense that he was attempting to steal her victory out from under her.

“No, you are quite correct my dear Watson. I did not expect such a magnificent show of victory.” The tender smile remained as he looked down at his cup before gazing toward her, “but I had hoped you would use what you had learned to tip the balance in your favor. As you lost hand after hand, I began to worry. It appears my concern was misplaced, you have quite mastered the art of observation.”

Joan took a sip of her tea, letting the warmth of it and his praise wash over her. Despite it she was troubled, her lips turned downward as she set down the cup. “So, why were you using false tells?”

“Pardon?” Sherlock said, looking shocked for the second time that evening.

“Your tells were obvious, you never do that.” Joan explained, fingers fiddling with her mug. “Your winning tell is to set your cards down, a bad hand you hold them in your left hand and fiddle with them. These are so obvious, they can't be your actual tells.” 

“Well, I do have to keep somethings to myself don't I?” Sherlock said, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “How else will I have a chance to beat you next time.”

They both laughed, before finishing their tea. It was these moments Joan loved the best. No case, no great murderer to conquer, but all of them together. This strange menagerie of friends. Joan rose to place her cup in the sink and look out at the quiet evening.

“Remind me to teach you to play craps, you never know when we'll need that astute power of observation to pay the bills.” 

Joan rolled her eyes without turning from the window, he'd know just looking at her anyway. The light across the street was flickering out with dawn, and soon the others would follow it. She stood at the window for a few more minutes before turning away. Sherlock had already gone into the living room, asleep on the couch with the duvet wrapped around himself. She grinned, taking his cup and placing it beside her own in the sink before quietly making her way upstairs. Tomorrow would be another case, another murder, another hurt family, but today she had a small victory to keep her warm and the memories of laughter. It was enough.


	11. Prom Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from the same anon who challenge me to put our duo in a tree house! Now it's Prom Night, with Joan and Sherlock!

“What are we doing here, exactly?” Joan asked, her eyes taking in the large building. Joan hadn’t been anywhere near a high school in at least ten years, and seeing it decked out for a prom brought up uncomfortable memories of high school drama, and an overpriced and boring evening. She adjusted the simple black dress she had worn as Sherlock straightened the tweed jacket he had deemed appropriate for the evening.

“We are acting as chaperones for the Westerly Hills Private School prom,” Sherlock said, cringing as a girl in a bright orange dress moved past him toward the entrance with it’s streamers and balloons.

“I figured that part out, what I want to know is why.” Dark eyes moved to Sherlock and watched him rock on his heels, hands in fists at his side as he glanced toward Watson awkwardly and Joan sighed. “Another hunch?” Sherlock looked away from her, his hands clasping one another and she felt the headache starting, “Sherlock, we can’t keep chasing ghosts just because Moriarty broke out, she is probably long gone by now.”

“This is different, I know she’s here.” Sherlock’s entire body language tensed as he spoke, his eyes narrowing as he stared at her with a look that was nearing mania. Joan had indulged it the first time, but it was four months now and she was becoming concerned for his mental state, not to mention the last ‘hunch’ had them both arrested and Gregson having to make some very strong apologies.

“Sherlock listen to yourself! Why would she be at a high school prom? What possible reason could she have to be here?” She stepped closer to him as more people were entering the prom, her voice kept low but tone harsh, but Sherlock didn’t cave. Instead he stood straighter, his jaw clenching and lips down turned into an angered frown, he was holding his hands in tense fists out of anger.

“Because, Watson, one of the other chaperones is Carl Baker, the only man willing to flip on Ms. Moriarty’s entire operation.” He had stepped close enough to her she could feel his angry breath over the top of her head, his eyes boring holes into her, “I believe, no, I know Moriarty is going to attempt to use this to stop him from giving us whatever information he holds. We have had him under lock and key for months, but he insisted on this venture.”

“What about witness protection?” Joan asked, looking once more at the school. This was no place to make a stand, and not one to keep a single man safe. 

“Mr. Baker refused, and we cannot force him to take our suggested course. He may take it after his daughter graduates, but for now we must work with what is given us. We must keep him, and the girl safe.” He had turned suddenly, pacing forward as he spoke before returning with the same determined air and mania in his eye. “Watson, I need you to do this with me. I cannot watch them both, nor can we afford to call Gregson.”

“You mean Gregson won’t listen to you after he had to apologize to the district attorney?”

“Semantics.” He stepped two paces and gripped her shoulders, leaning to make eye contact, “Please, Watson. These people are in danger. If nothing happens we spend our evening trying to keep teenagers from snogging in the corner and plenty free refreshments. Please.” His fingers gripped her shoulders almost to the point of pain, and usually after making an entreaty he would retreat, but this time he stayed and Joan felt the quiver in his arms as he stood there.

“Do you at least have a picture of the Mr. Baker’s daughter?” Joan said reluctantly.

“I knew I could count on you, Watson.” He let go of her, retrieving his phone from his pocket with a hurried motion before unlocking it and showing it to her. “This is Abigail Baker, I suggest we split up. I shall keep an eye on Mr. Baker, while you keep up with Abigail.”

“You sure? I hear that British accents are quite popular with teenagers?” Joan replied, sarcasm heavy in her voice, but Holmes looked at her without humor.

“I will not go in there and knowingly flirt with a child beneath the age of majority.” He was tense with the words, his hands curling into fists again as his jaw clenched. Joan couldn’t help the raised eyebrow, this reaction not his usual response to such suggestions.

“Alright, I shadow Abigail while you keep Mr. Baker safe. Got it.” 

“Good, we shall meet at the refreshment table every hour as allowed to share status before returning to the party.” Joan nodded and started heading toward the doors, but Sherlock reached out and stopped her, “If you spot Ms. Moriarty, or anything out of the ordinary text my phone. Do not put yourself in danger.”

“Sherlock, I-”

“Promise me.” Sherlock was staring at her with all the intensity of before, but now it was desperation. His eyes were raw as his hands curled and uncurled at his side. “I cannot take the chance that she could harm you as well Watson, this could all be a ruse to get us both out in the open. Please.”

Joan could feel the emotion in him as he gripped her, desperate to make her understand. It made sense now, his desperate pacing over the past few days wasn’t because of the trouble they had gotten into but whether or not he could take her with him on this. She raised a hand and placed it over his own, nodding. “I promise, I will do no investigating and will inform you if anything seems out of the ordinary.”

He stood up, relief washing over his face as he dropped his hands away, “Good. Now I suggest we enter before teenagers run amok without our presence.” 

They entered separately, Joan first and Sherlock ten minutes later. He used it as an opportunity to take a look at the grounds and ensure entry and exit points before joining them. The affair was balloons, streamers, bright lights, and bad music. Still the kids were having fun, and it had been a long time since Joan had been able to really watch the new generation, still full of dreams and hopes and drama. In six months time these kids would be running off to college or work, ready to start lives of their own. It took her almost twenty minutes to finally find Abigail, in a throng of friends. It would appear she came dateless, but she didn’t seem bothered by it as she talked and laughed with the others. She was rather plain looking, but pretty in her bright pink dress and had an infectious smile. Joan hovered, trying to ensure Abigail didn’t notice she was being tailed by keeping proper distance and Abigail was too taken with the festivities to notice her. Sherlock’s evening faired the same, he found Mr. Baker almost immediately and after engaging him in small talk the two would run into each other a few times having agreed to meet up to do a quick run of the entrance to ensure there were no stragglers milling about the entrance, possible doing unscrupulous things.

The first four check ins were without fail, and with no new information. The prom was thinning out, couple leaving for the evening while others stayed. It was the fifth check-in where something odd caught Joan’s eye. There was a man she hadn’t seen all evening. He was tall, wearing a fine suit, and she thought perhaps he was a parent but no child ran up to him upon seeing his presence. At first she pushed it out of her mind, but slowly she started noticing how he moved through the party, eyes alert and searching, checking his phone multiple times before staring out into the crowd.

Joan pulled her phone out, quickly typing to Sherlock ‘Goon, black suit, my seven.’ Clicking send and her eyes looked over the crowd trying to find that awful gray tweed jacket and unmanageable hair when she felt a grip on her arm, and looked up to see the man she described.

“Good evening, Ms. Watson.” He said, voice cold and with an accent she couldn’t place. “Come with me, quietly, or I may have to make a scene in front of all these kids. You wouldn’t want that, would you Ms. Watson?”

Joan tensed, feeling the tight grip of his hand on her arm, and her body went rigid. She tried to remember her training, tried to remember all the ways to get out of a man holding you, but there was something hard pressed against her back and she froze. 

“I will shoot you Ms. Watson, if you do not come quietly. I think we’d both rather not have this turn to bloodshed.” He tugged, and she followed, eyes looking out at the party one last time to try to find Sherlock but over the throng of remaining kids she couldn’t catch sight of that jacket, or find those blue eyes. He moved quickly, the hand on her arm not releasing as the mystery man half-dragged her toward the entrance. Once outside he reached, grabbing her purse and relieving her of it. “Can’t have Mr. Holmes figuring out where you are, can we?” He said, dropping the purse before shoving her towards a large black car, and that was her chance. He let go, and she bolted, running towards the brush that they passed entering the school. During their second meet-up, he informed her of a secondary entrance to the school that was left open for the chaperones, if she could get around to it she could get back to the party and find Holmes. She felt her heels sink on wet sod and kicked out of them, and she could also hear the heavy footfalls of the man, but Joan was a runner and she knew she could out pace him.

She came around the bushes, her footfalls quiet for having kicked off the shoes and she took the second corner. The door was in the back, metal against the wall and near a porch, Holmes had described it to her in perfect detail. It had a single light, and opening it would trigger the alarm but that was just what she was hoping for. As she took the final corner she saw the light, but in it she also saw a figure standing, and it was easy to tell it wasn’t Holmes. She slowed, eyes gazing at the doorway as she saw the blonde haired figure of Ms. Morairty herself, arms crossed with an amused gaze on her perfect face.

“Now now, Joan. That’s no way to treat an old friend is it?” The man had caught up, and moved menacingly toward her. “I just want to speak with you, we never did get to have a proper conversation after that unfortunate circumstance at the hospital now did we?”

“Is that what this is all about? Mad that some one could figure you out.” Joan said, standing tall even as she heard the larger man stepping toward her. “ You’re not the rare-mastermind you think you are Ms. Adler.”

“I know what I am, let’s see if you know what you are.” Moriarty responded, a sickening grin on her face, “Now come along like a good girl, we have much to do.”

Joan was about to open her mouth in protest when she felt a cold hand on her shoulder and the sound of something metal unsheathing, and then the world went black.


	12. Two Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request by an anonymous for Joan telling Sherlock she's pregnant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, please don't hate me for leaving the cliff hanger there. These are all one shots (and it was there to punish the anonymous for doubting me) and I want to adhere to that. Maybe some time i'll go back a proper fic out of that prompt? I don't know.
> 
> Second, Joan pregnant is something I am not good at. She strikes me as a woman who is too careful for that to happen, but the point of getting prompts is to challenge me correct? So, I hope this isn't too terrible. Enjoy!

I have a really hard time with Watson pregnant because she seems like some one who is too careful for that. BUT, I love fluff, and this was to challenge me so I shall attempt. So, please don’t hold it against me if this ends up terrible.

**

 

“You’ve been acting odd lately, Watson.” Sherlock says, in the same way some one else comments on the weather. He’s making tea for them both while she sits at the kitchen table. Breakfast this morning is muffins and tea, nice and easy with minimal dishes. “Something on your mind?“ He sets down her cup, and she shrugs while looking up something on her phone. She doesn’t look up when he sits, his hands momentarily busy adding sugar to his tea before he looks across at her. Her hair is perfectly styled, as always, her make up done impeccably and with the finesse and understated tones of a woman who once worked in a much more professional arena.

She straightened her blue blazer, eyes still on the phone. Normally Sherlock would be all too happy to simply watch her, enjoy being in her presence, but she hadn’t responded to his questioning. He reached across, his hand touching hers enough to bring her away from the phone. “Joan, I do believe it is rude to ignore me outright if I’ve done nothing in the past twenty four hours to make you cross.”

She smiled at that, relaxing the tension she’d been carrying since that morning. Her body leaning back as she patted his hand before allowing him to retract it. “Sorry, Sherlock. Just distracted.” She tries to give him a bright smile, but he knows her tells too well. Her eyes are dark with lack of sleep, she had tossed and turned most of the night previous, before completely giving up, and her motions were tense and jerky.

“Lying is also rather rude, given present company.” His voice had lost it’s soft edge, Holmes never took well to being lied to. He leveled his eyes at her, only to find her staring at her phone again. This was not right, she was meant to stare him back, tell him to mind his own business, remind him that being in a relationship did not equate him gaining the right to absolute knowledge. Instead her fingers continued typing away, her brows pinching in frustration. “Watson.”

She looked up then, her eyes showing all signs of a woman who did not lose just last night’s sleep, but several other nights worth. “I’m sorry Sherlock, this is something I need to take care of.” She stood up then, taking her tea and heading up the stairs. If this were an average occurrence he would have respected her privacy, respect was a large part of their continued partnership both domestic and personal. Normally he would let her go, ask quietly later when there was a private moment, and then be done with it. Today he would not react within the normal paradigms of his expected behavior, he would not ignore her hunched countenance or tense joints. Something was quite wrong, and he would be loathe to let her suffer alone. She stood in her own room, for they still kept separate spaces though neither had bothered retreating to them in some time. She had been talking of taking out her old bed and allowing them to turn it into some form of office though she had done no more than speak. Sherlock wondered some times if she liked the security of a space that was her own. She finally broke her eyes away from her phone, looking around the room.

“Joan, what is it?” He asked from the doorway, and she whirled around in surprise. She had not heard him on the stair, that was apparent. She laughed quietly, a hollow sound, before pulling the strands of hair that had gotten free behind her ear once more.

“It’s nothing,” She deflected, and Sherlock shook his head.

“It is not nothing, that much is apparent. Your entire body language can attest that it is not, in fact, nothing..” He was tempted to wrap his arms around her, to use human comfort to attempt to manipulate the information he sought from her, but his respect for her was too high to use her in such a way. “I am aware that we had agreed to respect each other’s privacy, and if you wish I shall go downstairs, continue breakfast, and not press the matter further.” He had moved within a few steps from her now, arms kept passively at his side. He longed to hold her, but instead he kept himself neutral and allow her to come to her own decision. His eyes were filled with emotion, concern and worry chief among them, and that he would not hide her. “However, I would truly appreciate it, as your partner, if you would tell me.”

Joan wavered, oscillating before a sigh left her. “I’m pregnant.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure he heard her, his eyes going wide and then blinking rapidly as if to clear a strange dream away. “Are you sure?” She was on birth control, had always been careful, insistent that they continue a relationship in a semi-casual manner. He had…not adhered strictly by that guideline he would admit. His arms tensed with a desperate want to embrace her, but still he kept himself in check. He kept his body neutral as she sat on the edge of the bed she had not slept in for quite some time.

“Yes, I am very sure. I’m just trying to find a decent clinic in New York, but it’s harder than I expected.” She kept her voice neutral, same with her expression aside from the tension in her figure. He slowly walked to the bed to sit down beside her.

“A clinic?” She had a perfectly good OBGYN, he knew for he had researched her extensively along with all of Joan’s doctors. Still there was something in the way she said it, the way her mouth seemed to choke on the word that had him concerned.

“An abortion clinic, Sherlock.” She said it with an easy tone, but there was tension in it. Something inside him ached with the words.

He turned his head, blue-gray eyes attempting to hide the shock of those words. “You have decided on aborting?”

“We agreed to keep our relationship as it is, no marriage, no children. Remember?” There was a cross tone taking to her voice, and he frowned in response.

Yes, he did remember. It was a million kisses, and embraces, and nights in the same bed ago. It was made by a man who was afraid of a life that was never his to have, afraid of ruining some one as he had been ruined, as all people were ruined. It was a man who had never been cared for with equal measure to his own, never by a man who had been redeemed. He was not that man anymore. His fingers hunted for hers, finding her hand and threading his fingers between hers as he had a million times. “Is this what you wish?” He attempted to hide his emotion, but the words were choked as he kept his eyes forward.

“It was what we agreed on-” Joan responded, but he raised his free hand to stop her.

“Is this what you want, Joan?” He looked at her then, unsure eyes with fear and found the same look gazing back at him.

“I don’t know.” She said finally, looking away as she picked up her phone again and disentangled her fingers from his. She stood up and he mirrored the motion.

“How long?” He asked, looking as she gazed down at the phone.

“I’m only three weeks late, we have some…time.” She hesitated, and he moved to wrap his arms around her. She didn’t retreat, and he felt the fear begin leaving him as he felt her smaller frame against him, the warmth even through her clothes.

“Then I suggest we finish breakfast, and talk about this like reasonable and well adjusted adults.” He whispered against her cheek before pressing his lips there, feeling her lean into the touch before he unwrapped himself from around her.

“But - what you said -” Joan floundered, turning to look at him.

“That was two years ago, Joan.” He reached out, his fingers touching along her cheek as he gazed into her dark eyes, remember the last two years in a blur of moments. “Two years can change many things.” He moved to pull his hand back but hers caught it, pressing the soft and harsh of his fingers against her cheek.

“Yes, yes it can.” She smiled, and he felt all was right in the world once more.


	13. Dust to Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan and Sherlock have a quiet moment at the Brownstone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the anonymous prompter who wanted a Joanlock fic based off the song Dust to Dust by The Civil Wars. I really enjoyed writing this, and I hope you all will enjoy reading it.

The night is quiet as they sit around the fire, Sherlock's eyes staring into the flames in quiet contemplation. They had been like this for some time, just quietly sitting beside each other and it wasn't uncomfortable. All his life Sherlock had found the presence of other people oppressive, an unnecessary distraction to his intellectual pursuits, and relationships even more so. Friendships required constant upkeep, they had needs and wants that Sherlock was never prepared to fulfill as he had no schedule, no easy time to put in for drinks. As Joan had learned as her own friendships had disappeared with the year she had been working with/for him. Very few friends were prepared to deal with the demands of the intellect, and yet here he had found some one who not only had time but gave of it freely. 

He looked at her as she read her book beside him, close but not quite touching. That was their entire relationship, was it not? Close, but not quite touching. At first he had wanted her gone, viewed her as another leech to his mind, some one who would distract him, but instead she made him better. In her own way she made him not only drug free, but allowed him to focus without it. Lately he had begun to worry of what life would be without her, he had never needed some one before. Not even she who must not be named, he had loved her in a strange and demented way. . .but it was her death that cemented his attachment not her life. She became the representation of every failing, and he could not look away from it, while Joan had become the embodiment of all his successes. Everything he strove for, his intellect, his love of the strange were all there in her.

“Sherlock?” Her voice dragged him from his thoughts and he realized he had been staring at her. He quickly looked back to the fire, but he had been caught. “Is something wrong?” Her voice was soft, filled with the caring their partnership was built on. Sherlock Holmes, caring. Life did strange things.

“I was just contemplating how different you are.” He said it softly, feeling a strange bit of embarrassment in his voice, he had not felt this way for some time as he felt nervousness move through him and he tensed his hands into fists to stop himself from fidgeting. 

“I'm not really sure how to take that.” She said after a moment, setting down her book as her gaze was fully on him. For the first time he felt what it must have been like to have his gaze on someone, her eyes caught everything he did, filing it away for some greater meaning and he fought to keep himself as neutral as possible. 

“I mean it in the best possible way, I assure you, Watson.” He caught himself smiling, and hid it away again. “You do not get caught up in the minutae, you see things as they are. It is a rare talent.” Sherlock frowned at that, he didn't know why he was saying any of this, but Joan smiled.

“I'm glad I found you too, Sherlock.” She says it so easily, without any of the pretense or fear. Her eyes are bright, unguarded even though she knows he will read her so easily. Instead she lets him read, without fear of what he'll see. He is gazing at her with his intense gaze, and just like the first time they met she doesn't look away. 

“Watson, I-” He doesn't know what to say, something inside him that would not let it free. He sees her, and sees her like he has so many times. Laughter, anger, even tears on a rare occasion, and all of it makes up who she is. All of it makes the picture of a woman who reflects and contrasts him. Something in his chest constricts and he looks away, staring into the flame. Her fingers reach out, find his wrist, and he doesn't pull away like he would with anyone else. This touch has become so commonplace that he misses it when she does not reach out to him, and her hand simply rests on his wrist, it doesn't demand.

“I understand.” Is all she says, that soft smile on her lips. “You've been lonely for a long time, haven't you?”

Lonely, alone, he had never realized it. It was true though, he had been alone, and only now did he realize it. “It seems strange, Watson. Before you were forced into my life I had not realized I was. . .lonely.” The word felt strange on his lips, just as strange as it felt in his mind. He had been lonely, all this time and never had someone to show it to him. Joan moved to take her hand away, but he catches it and threads his fingers with hers. “I am lonely, without you.”

It's a soft confession, a whisper, but Joan smiles like she'd been waiting for it for so long. She does not pull her hand away, and instead holds his hand in response. “I know.” Is all she says, just as quiet. In that moment he realizes that the pain in his chest is the fear that she'll disappear, the strange pain he feels during these quiet moments is the fact that he knows the void that she'll leave. 

He feels two counter wants at that moment, to bring her closer, and to push her so far away that he has the pain and can overcome it. Any closer and he feels she'll burn him. She does nothing to change his mind one or the other, she simply keeps her hand in his, and goes back to her book. He bites the inside of his cheek as his eyes find her lips and realizes he wishes to kiss her, to touch that softness and to bind them together. Then the fear, of rejection, of pain, of breaking the sweet balance they have so far maintained squashes it. 

She rests her book against her knees and turns the pages with one hand, never taking her hand from his. She seems to be waiting, waiting for him to make some sort of choice. He looks down, her thin fingers between his long ones. It's so simple, but the pain is so real. He looks to her, as if she could make it up his mind for him, part of him wanting her to, to take the choice away from him so that should this all go up in flames it can be her fault not his.

She simply smiles, and says “It's ok,” without ever looking up. He looks down at their hands, and scoots just a little closer so that his knee is brushing hers, and slowly she moves so her head rests on his shoulder. It is all the revelation he can take for the day, but it is enough. He smiles as he leans his head back against hers, feeling the softness of her hair against his cheek and their hands stay together as she keeps reading and he stares into the fire.

The loneliness abates, and it's enough.


	14. Fear and Icepicks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan is now several months pregnant, and Sherlock attempts to cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for an anonymous prompt. I was originally avoiding doing anything more pregnancy related, but this idea was just too hilarious to pass up. Hope you enjoy!

Joan is about ready to explode, and it’s not because of her overly round stomach that at times makes her feel like an overfilled balloon. She is six months pregnant and the bump is overly noticeable, and while Joan has managed to somewhat maintain her physique she is going to be thankful when the baby is born, use of her stomach as a great place to rest her book not withstanding. She also isn’t ready to lose her mind because of the hormonal imbalance that often comes with a combination of pregnancy and prenatal pills either, no, she is about ready to scream in frustration because of Sherlock.

It started with a few reasonable arrangements, by the time she had reached six months she was to cut back on her jogging and only do a brisk walk twice a week as per doctor’s orders. Then it was the agreement that she would not be involved in live cases due to the tendency for Sherlock and gunpowder to go together. This was an occupational hazard best avoided, and the worry would be a dangerous distraction to Sherlock, so she worked several cases either from home, or simply sat out on questioning and did reconnaissance from the relative comfort of the precinct.

At first Sherlock had been reasonable as well, when the signs of it weren’t quite so clear. He joked about her being the skinniest pregnant woman he’d ever known, which had turned to fretting as everything else had now that she was several months along and had not filled out as much as he had been told to expect. He read vigorously on the subject as well, as was his way of coping, and there was an entire shelf now filled with books of child psychology, the first few months of development, and several on the proper stages of the child’s brain and how best to impart learning skills. In fact she caught him researching schools the other day, insuring he had the best possible grip on what was to come for some time into the future.

He had been helpful enough with the nursery, which was now in her old room, though he had been a bit miffed to have to move the office downstairs, but she made him see sense with the fact that this room was closer and easier to monitor. Cameras had been installed, as they were everywhere why not here, and he had tested the actual force the crib could take…which had forced them to buy another one. He also still had not told his father, which Joan informed him that in two weeks when the baby shower invitations went out he was getting one and if that lead to an awkward conversation it was his to deal with, not hers.

None of this had made her want to scream at him, even when he signed her up for Yoga as an attempt to stymie her need to run, or when he signed them both up for a parenting class and then promptly missed three sessions due to a case. No, it was the fact that he was absolutely refusing to let her get up and do anything.

He shadows her, with a smile on his lips and a fretting posture whenever she attempts to get up and do anything of her own volition. He tries to predict her needs to keep her resting, and while the sentiment is sweet it is completely misguided and more than a little bit frustrating. She sits up for the fourth time to attempt to go get a glass of water to find Sherlock up from his chair in an instant.

“What do you require, Watson?” It is funny how little he calls her by her first name, and she wonders idly if the baby will do the same.

“I’m just going to get up and go into the kitchen.” She deflects, eyes watching him warily as she moves to stand. It’s a bit tricky to stand with a basketball strapped to your front, it’ll get worse in the coming months.

“I can get whatever it is you need.” He is giving her his best nervous grin, his fingers interlocked to keep himself from assisting her in standing. He learned his lesson yesterday when she swung her book at him to get him to back away. Lessons had not ceased, and she was devouring books left and right, now if only a case would pop up to convince Sherlock to get out of the house and leave her alone.

“I’m fine,” is all she replies, her voice terse as she begins the walk to the kitchen. He shadows her, and she groans. “Don’t you have some work you could be doing? Work we could be doing?”

She asks desperately as he steps ahead of her to turn the kettle on when he predicts that is where she is headed. He knows her mannerisms now and it makes this all the more insufferable. “I fear not, my dear Watson.” Is all he replies, and she grumbles as she goes to the refrigerator for more food to feed the insufferable appetite the baby has given her. She grabs an orange and a sandwich Sherlock already prepared.

“Come on, it’s been two weeks.” The words are slightly muffled by the wonderful taste of the sandwich. Two years ago she would have been surprised if Sherlock could cook instant ramen without turning it into a situation in which the fire department and possibly the CDC. Now she is finding, quite happily, that he could be a gourmet when he chose to be. “ It’s new york, it’s not possible that not a single case…even a cold case hasn’t come up."

She licks a tiny bit of mustard from the corner of her mouth, tasting prosciutto and fine provolone when she caught him twitch. He was cleaning out a mug, waiting for the kettle to boil, but the twitch was there all the same. Her eyes narrow, “Sherlock.” The word almost made him jump, but he contains it admirably and only tenses instead.

He turns and offers her his best smile, “Yes, love?”

Oh, this was not good. He only used endearing nicknames when he had done something wrong, “There was a case wasn’t there.” His eyes flick to the left, good as a guilty dog showing it’s belly, “Sherlock!”

He's sheepish as he looks over to her, “It was nothing Gregson couldn’t handle on his own.”

“We talked about this, my pregnancy was not to interfere with your - our” she corrected,” work.” She could feel a headache blooming as she started viciously peeling her orange.

“I did not find it interesting.” Another lie, and as her eyes narrow further and intensified their stare at him, he frowns pulling his lips into a tense line. “I – did not wish to leave you alone.”

Finally, the truth of the matter. She sighs and set the wrongly assaulted orange aside. The kettle began to whistle, and tea made in a moment before he sits down. “I could go with you to the precinct.” She offs, but Sherlock just stares into his tea.

“I am afraid.” He admits softly, his fingers playing with his mug by turning it’s handle this way and that. “I never thought I’d have this chance, a family, a life beyond my work.”

Joan stays silent as she watches his blue-gray eyes continue to stare into the amber of his tea. Instead she reaches out to his unoccupied hand and takes it in her own, which seemed to bring him out of that contemplating stare. “Now I fear something shall happen to take it from me -” He doesn’t finish the thought, he doesn’t have to. Moriarty, she hangs like a shadow in the room and she squeezes his hand a little tighter. The threat is always there, but in two years it seemed so commonplace she had not thought to focus on it, it appeared Sherlock was not so lucky. “I cannot take that chance.”

“Sherlock,” She says with every amount of sweetness available in her, “if you don’t let me get up and get my own damn water I will be forced to brutally murder you with an icepick -”

“We do not own an icepick.” He interjects.

“I’m a pregnant woman on a mission, do you really believe I can’t get my hands on an icepick?”

He smiles then, a laugh on his lips as he intertwines his fingers between hers. The sound is wonderful, lighthearted and more relaxed than anything he’s done in the past two weeks. “I have been rather foolish, haven’t I, Watson?”

He smiles, and she smiles in return. “Just a bit.” He sneaks a bite of her sandwich, grinning happily as he does so. “Now why don’t you contact Gregson, and I’ll go back to reading the encyclopedia of crime.”

He nods slowly, and she stands and this time does not shoot him a nasty look for coming to help her. It really is hard to get around with a basketball strapped to your front.


End file.
